


The Descent

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The descent beckons,</i><br/><i>as the ascent beckoned</i><br/><i>. . . endless and indestructible.</i> </p><p>  <i>-William Carlos Williams</i></p><p> </p><p>They called him Jaime the Goldenhand for the surety of his sword, flashing beneath gold plated armor.</p><p>Years after King Rhaegar defeated the traitors of Robert's Rebellion, the heir to Casterly Rock weds a broad-faced, hapless, and remarkably dutiful maiden of his father's choosing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jaime

**Author's Note:**

> Finally bringing this over from JB Online and FFnet. I've been working on this fic on and off since Christmas, and it is by no means finished. But I do so love arranged marriage AUs. 
> 
> Fair warning: I'm not nearly as diligent about updating this as I am my high school AU. This fic is set in Westeros, and so I _had_ to add political rumblings, and politics baffles me, tbqh. So I have to put much deeper thought into each installment, which makes my posting infrequent. *shrug* (I do have a handful of chapters done already, so anyone reading this fresh for the first time doesn't have to worry _too_ much for the next several weeks, lol).
> 
> *The title is taken from [this](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21034) poem by William Carlos Williams which, along with my desperate desire to force J/B into awkward situations, helped inspire this fic.

They had dressed her in cloth-of-gold, an iridescent gown with crimson inlays that rippled like fire when she danced. Candlelight flickered across her skirts with the warm mystery of a campfire, and the dying cast of the sun glinted merrily along the rubies inlaid in the lion on her cloak. Matching rubies glittered atop her hair, caught in a net gifted by the king himself.

Had the lady but matched the beauty of her garments, the polite smiles and mocking gazes of Casterly Rock and her constituents might have held merriment Jaime could appreciate. But he knew as well as they that Lord Selwyn had drawn deeply from the coffers of Evenfall Hall to dress his daughter in so lavish a fashion. It was a gesture he would have been well to do without. The golden cloth leeched more color from the maid’s skin than it leeched from her father’s purse. The Maid of Tarth—Maid of Casterly Rock now, Jaime supposed, if only for an evening—escaped a sallow complexion only by the uncomfortable flush creeping down her neck to disappear beneath the crimson scrollwork of her flat bodice.

His own attire suited him ill, he would admit. The seamstresses had attempted to blend the rose of Tarth’s quarters into the rich crimson of House Lannister. The effect on his tunic was hardly short of distasteful.

But nothing could suit anyone less than Lannister colors suited the Lady Brienne.

She looked about as pleased with her gown as she had been with the rest of her wedding. Her broad homely face had shifted between discomfit and stoicism as he lay his cloak across her shoulders and brushed his lips to hers. Once the feast was underway, her features had settled into a dull mask. Jaime could not decide whether to be relieved or affronted.

Truth be told he was oddly aware of the how vastly her behavior diverged from that of any other bride. Each maiden of his acquaintance had approached her wedding as the culmination of life’s great adventure. Even Cersei, who had come to him in secret before her public nuptials, had been outwardly delirious the day she wedded the prince. But this hulking maiden shrunk into herself when faced with well-wishers and festivities alike.

A solitary glimmer of affection had swept into her when her father clasped her hands for a customary blessing and seemed to seep away when Lord Selwyn stepped back for the king to kiss her fingers. By the time the queen slid past Jaime to caress her cheek and murmur, “Blessings, sister,” Brienne’s visage was as tedious as it had ever been.

 _As pleased as a horse-thief facing the headsman’s axe_ , he groused. _And less comely than a stolen horse at that._

She danced well enough, he supposed. Her movements were fluid, oddly graceful for one who had so clearly been denied partners since her first feast day. But whenever he noted a particularly deft turn of foot she would suddenly stumble, and it was all Jaime could do to preserve the dance.

He found himself irritated by how quickly she begged off.  _Three dances, and suddenly her own wedding celebration is beyond her._

Any other maid would dance until they were both breathless and the stars twinkled in grey predawn. Trust his lord father to wed him to the one maid in all of Westeros not smitten by Jaime Lannister the Goldenhand.

Jaime escaped to the dais where Tyrion soon found him, a quip, as ever, on his tongue.

“Only wine,” he said, “will dull the onus of your particular marital duties, dear brother. The homeliest woman’s beauty can be found in the sweet dregs of an Arbor red.” Tyrion punctuated his words by tipping a pitcher over Jaime’s goblet. Wine sprinkled across the linen tablecloth as he set it aright.

But even Tyrion, unsteady as he was, could tell that wine would not make Jaime a fit companion. He soon wandered off to beg drink and company from a cluster of serving wenches, leaving Jaime to contemplate his wine.

It might ease the task before him, as Tyrion suggested. But it might also make his tongue flow freer, and insulting his lady wife in front of their guests would be an ill start indeed.

His wine sat untouched on the red-dotted tablecloth.

Jaime realized of a sudden that he had not seen the woman in question for some quarter of an hour. He scanned the hall and caught sight of her in a dim-lit alcove. Brienne seemed to be accepting chastisement from a pinched-faced woman in a septa’s robes. Her wide shoulders looked awkward as she seemed to turn in on herself, and Jaime had the odd thought that he might step between them, but soon Brienne was moving towards him, shoulders set like no woman he had ever known, and he dismissed the notion.

_As if anyone needed saving from a septa._

“My lord husband.” She curtsied stiffly as she reached the top of the dais, waiting for his nod of acknowledgement before seating herself beside him.

Jaime had half risen to help her gain her seat, and was left hovering above his cushion for several graceless moments. He sat more heavily than he intended and took a swill of wine to cover his unease.

The wine was another gift from the king and queen, though Jaime suspected his sister played the larger part in its choosing. It was remarkably similar to a vintage they’d shared one golden summer day, Jaime a green squire fresh off his first tourney and Cersei glowing with the first bud of womanhood. They’d spent the afternoon hiding away in sunlit rooms and, intoxicated by Arbor red and each other, had finally done more than play at being a man and a woman.

Jaime’s eyes flickered to where his sister sat. The royal dais was raised, as was his, so Jaime had an unimpeded view of Cersei, whose mouth was pinched tightly as she ignored her young daughter giggling at Rhaegar’s legitimized bastard.

Jon Targaryen was the fly in the cream pitcher for Cersei; that had not changed over the years. She had grown better at concealing it, true, but anyone who knew her could see disdain painted in the high arch of her brow and nestled at the corner of her lips.

On the day Rhaegar had welcomed his ill-gotten son into his keep, Cersei had come to Jaime in a flurry of silk brocade. Her crown had rested atop her head as he fucked her against the wall, and Jaime felt its rubies watching him like Rhaegar’s eyes. Perhaps they were, for not two hours hence Rhaegar had strode into Jaime’s quarters, his voice soft and his eyes glinting dangerously, and ordered him off to resolve the Blackwood-Bracken dispute. Jaime had not held quarters in the New Keep since.

Rhaegar’s eyes were suddenly fixed on Jaime, as if he could sense his good-brother's thoughts. The king had always been disconcertingly astute; Jaime’s years away from King’s Landing had not changed that.

Uncomfortable beneath King Rhaegar’s gaze, Jaime turned to the woman beside him. “Have you tried the mutton?” were the banal first words of his marriage.

Dutifully, Brienne filled her mouth and chewed. Jaime drummed his fingers on the table and chanced a look at his good-brother. Rhaegar had turned to his wife. Another moment and Jaime did likewise.

_She chews more thoroughly than I hone my blade._

When at last she swallowed, Brienne jerked her head in Jaime’s direction. “Thank you, my lord.”

_She speaks more slowly than she chews. Who would have thought it possible?_

“That was your septa?” he asked, merely for something to say.

“Septa Roelle,” Brienne answered hastily, glancing down at the woman in question, who seemed to be watching them.

“She seems quite intent on our performance,” Jaime noted wryly.

Brienne missed the nature of his quip. “It is the duty of a lady to do service to her lord father by pleasing her lord husband,” she said by rote.

Jaime grimaced, barely biting back his jest about the likelihood of him finding pleasure this night, or any night hence.

“Surely she has nothing to fear, now that you’ve successfully wedded into a rich and powerful House,“ he said instead.

Brienne blinked, and half raised her eyes from the table before her gaze darted back to her septa. She seemed unable to gauge the sincerity of his words, or the proper response under the circumstances. Her mouth worked soundlessly for several long moments, but in the end she said nothing.

Unable to disinter Septa Roelle’s tutelage from his wife’s thoughts, Jaime gladly shifted his attention to the arrival of the second course, a braised goose stuffed with goat cheese and minced pears. They were well into the third course before Brienne could bring herself to comment.

“I would not bring you dishonor, ser.” Her words were calm, her voice calmer still, though she announced it to her plate rather than her husband.

Jaime studied her. She was altogether too steady for a maid at her wedding feast. She should be giddy with delight, or tremulous with anticipation, or quaking with nerves, or . . . or _something_.

Her calm was unnatural, but it suited him well enough.

“I would not expect it, my lady,” he assured, though part of him wished to observe that her mere appearance might shame the Lannister name, with naught she could do to remedy it.

“I will behave as is fit of the Lady of Casterly Rock,” she continued as though she understood what he had not said.

“I am not Lord of the Rock yet,” Jaime said. “Though my father forgets often enough.”

“You are his heir,” Brienne insisted. “I will not shame you.”

The vehemence in her words made Jaime seek out the septa once more. She no longer observed them, listening instead to one of the many bannermen the Evenstar had acquired in the ruin of Storm's End; whatever her words might have been, they seemed to hover over the newly wedded pair like a descending noose.

 _She is as fraught with expectations as I am_ , Jaime realized as his eyes found Brienne once more. His foot moved of its own accord to press flush against her own.

Brienne started, knocking over the heavily watered wine she favored. As liveried servants rushed to sop up the red pool before it stained, Jaime fought to keep his face mild.

 _My lord father has taken leave of his senses_ , he thought as he carefully shifted his boot to its original position and rescued his wine goblet from an overeager kitchen lad.

Brienne folded her hands in her lap. She did not stir upon the arrival of the cakes, nor motion for wine or water to fill her goblet. Every bit of her was aflame—even her fingers looked heated. Jaime imagined she was quite literally shamed to her toes.

 _May my marriage bring the Lord of the Rock the advantage he seeks, and the heirs he desires,_ he thought. _And may I find some small refuge from it as well._

Brienne settled into disconcerted silence, and Jaime spent the remainder of his wedding feast amusing himself with thoughts of each occasion he had defeated one of his guests, in battle mock or elsewise.

Though faced with singers and revelers and a fire eating pyromancer who Jaime ordered sharply away, Brienne scarcely blinked. She studied the food, her freckled hands, the slash of crimson silk clinging like a wound to her thigh. Not once did she look past the lion clasp of his cloak, and only glanced so far when his father arrived to make veiled insinuations that the new Lady of Lannister take care to uphold her family name. Jaime, occupied by thoughts of glories long past, whittled the time by watching her watch the table and wondering if she was indeed capable of looking someone full in the face.

_How odd that I am wed to a woman and have no idea the color of her eyes._

Jaime was broken from his thoughts by a familiar voice.

“We must have a bedding!” Tyrion called from some far corner of the room. He was very drunk. “Else the night will flee us.”

He may have placed Jaime in the role of the knight, or may just as soon have meant Brienne. She was as like to flee as he was. 

The flush had mercifully receded from Brienne’s cheeks, but Jaime had no time to observe her fully as he was pulled indecorously from his cushion and shuffled toward the stair. Aunt Genna twisted his ear and unclasped his cloak, and suddenly the corridor was awash in laughter. He let it slip over him, hands and bodies and his undone doublet, comments veiled and vulgar, several wine-laden quips about Lady Brienne that bordered on outright insults. Jaime saw nothing until the world brightened and the gaggle emerged into a torch-lit hallway, the ladies heavy with drink and mirth, and he lighter his boots and breeches.

“Let the princess have her sport,” he heard, and Daenerys was in front of him, hand hesitating before the remaining cloth. Aunt Genna snorted, and Dany blushed and skittered away, and suddenly Cersei was at his side, unlacing his smallclothes with sure fingers.

She toyed with the last knot and spoke just loudly enough to make her words known. “I shan’t rob Lady Brienne of the pleasure.”

When her mouth edged close to Jaime’s ear, her voice became a blade dripping honey. “And, oh, what pleasure.”

A sharp push and Jaime found himself alone with his wife in a dim-lit chamber. The bed was large and Brienne looked somehow small, bare as she was but for the rubies in her straw-colored hair. Her breasts were slight, her shoulders broad. Her short waist only hinted at a curve before easing into wide hips and legs long and muscular.

Jaime felt himself stir.

 _You might never realize she was homely_ , he thought, _with the moonlight lending her softness._

Bawdy suggestions tumbled through the muffling wood of the door, but Jaime barely heard them. Brienne did not seem to hear them at all.

He moved toward her slowly, so as not to disquiet her. She glanced up at him then, and he stopped.

Her eyes were blue and startlingly acute.

“You have done this before?” The query was blunt, with none of her earlier reticence. Her countenance held no hint of the envy or fear or resignation he might have expected had he thought to look for it.

“Yes.”

“You must show me,” she said.

 _I am alight with nerves_ , he realized in the same wry thought as, _this is absurd._

Her eyes were determined, more than any foe he’d faced in the yard or at tourneys or on the battlefield.

Jaime swallowed and reached for his last tie.


	2. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lady speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you so much for the feedback I received on the last chapter. I meant to reply to each comment individually, but unfortunately life (and my compulsive need to ceaselessly fic JB) got in the way. But please know how much those words mean to me! And continue to leave lovely comments. ;)

Brienne twisted through corridors and stairwells, silk slippers rasping silently against the flagstones as she made her slow path to the outer battlements. She took no care to meet anyone, but took no pains to avoid them either. The path she followed seemed unusually direct given her propensity for scuttling about Casterly Rock like an honorless vagabond.

It had taken her all of two days to find the second, smaller practice yard nestled in a forgotten corner of the grounds. The outer battlements had taken longer, but in a way they were more of a balm than even the yard. In the yard her shoulders bore the stares of unseen eyes, even when she was alone. In the yard the possibility of discovery weighed heavy on her thoughts.

Brienne could not long bear to be without her sword, but some things were more important.

Family. Duty. Honor.

So it was the outer battlements that she now sought.

The path had become familiar in a way she rarely felt in her new home. It was a bittersweet feeling. The gazes of servants followed her; she seemed as much an intruder in their eyes as she was in her own.

She was not like the women these halls had known. Portraits lined the passages, great lords and ladies alike, Lannisters long past whose lives were forgotten but whose silent deeds reproved her.

She did not belong. She was not pretty and clever and fearless. Court life seemed a punishment rather than an amusement. No number of silk dresses and ruby necklaces could change that.

The Rock was beautiful, there was no doubt, but Brienne felt stifled.

Wherever she went the stone seemed to press upon her, and the sunlight in the courtyards was wan and weak. Even the Stone Gardens, breathtaking though they were, glimmered in shadow and half-light, stirring her unease.

She missed clear blue skies, waterfalls and grass and the wide harbors that were less gentle than they appeared. She wished for other than the dank green glow of an underground harbor and the shifting shadows of passages hewn into stone. Some days she ached for nothing more than the feel of mud against her skin.

 _That is not your place_ , she reminded herself as the stair stopped coiling upward, choosing instead to deposit her in another dim passageway.

It seemed more open than the corridor below the stair, if only because she knew what lay beyond.

She passed a wide door, another armory, and paused.

Brienne often paused beside this door. One morning she stayed nearly a quarter hour before forcing herself onward.

Today she could almost believe she heard the warm rasp of steel on whetstone through the heavy oak. The memory of that sound swept over her like a wave in coarse seas: sharp and sweet and suffocating. Her arm itched to move with the familiar broad strokes that kept a blade honed and true.

Instead she worked her rough fingers against the smooth silk of her skirts. The motion was as unfamiliar as the garments and served as distraction enough that Brienne could will herself past the armory.

 _There is greater risk than reward_ , she reminded herself.

And it was true.

If she were discovered with a blade, she would be made to give up such unladylike conduct and take to sewing or tending feasts. She would shame her lord father and her lord husband and invite mockery to House Tarth and House Lannister, both.

If she were discovered gazing into the sea, the servants and septas and her lord husband would do nothing. Soft, weepy women dreaming of home were coddled. Women wielding weapons were met with derision, scorned as simple. A mummer’s farce.

Brienne stepped into brisk air high above the crags the Rock was named for.

Here she could dream of home and battles and stories from the songs. Here she could _be_ , without reprove.

The battlements were well maintained but rarely saw use. Had not, in fact, since well before Tytos Lannister nearly ran his house aground with niggardly deeds and empty courtesies. But Tywin Lannister was a living repeal of his father, and so the castle was well prepared for a sudden attack.

 _One might never be surprised in Casterly Rock_ , she surmised as she examined the view. The main gate looked all the way to Silver Hill, it sometimes seemed, and from where she stood a sparrow could not catch her unawares.

Here she was free to watch the boats: soldiers and fish merchants and envoys from Highgarden. Here she could see folk small and noble go about their tiny business. Here she would search for familiar crimson sails receding against the skyline and know that the practice yard was safe once more.

The thought was a nettle, but she could not deny the truth of it.

She was fortunate in the match her father made, she knew that well enough. Jaime Lannister might be an arrogant tourney knight whose honor reached no farther than King Rhaegar’s words, but he did not attempt to control her. Many men—most men—might take her disinterest in her wifely duties an affront, but Jaime seemed content with it. At the least he did not trouble himself with interfering.

Brienne had no wish to give cause for censure. She wore her gowns without complaint and trained only when her lord husband was well away. When her fingers itched for a sword and shield, and her shoulders writhed without the comforting press of leather and mail, Brienne thought of Septa Roelle and made her feet turn to the outmost reach of Casterly Rock, where sea met cliff and the air was rich with the spray of salt.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe the rough green waters were as placid and blue as those of her Sapphire Isle. And if she clenched her fingers and widened her stance, at times she could imagine she had just come from a difficult session with Ser Goodwin, and the stiffness in her shoulders was hard earned and welcome.

The scrape of leather on steel was so soft that Brienne thought she dreamed it. But the hollow echo of a door meeting its stone frame could not be mistaken.

Brienne spun, hand grasping uselessly at the air on her left hip. She could not decide whether to be relieved or frantic upon recognizing her husband’s face.

His hand dropped from his scabbard, its ornamented leather housing his longsword once more.

Brienne coveted the ease with which he wore it. She pulled her other arm around her body and toyed with the fabric of her gown, praying he would mistake instinct for nerves.

“You must have left your blade in your other gown, my lady,” Jaime said with a mocking smile that made her feel slow and stupid. “Or perhaps some manservant startled you, and you concealed your sins in the sea.”

Brienne could think of no suitable reply, and so she said nothing.

“Come now, my lady,” Jaime said, and he imbued the title with all the amusement men usually reserved for _swordswench_. “There is no need for shyness. I have heard tell of your skill, and I must admit myself most curious.”

“Have you spoken to Ser Humfrey?” Brienne asked before she could think better of it.

“Ser Humfrey?”

For a moment, Jaime looked truly baffled.

Brienne could not blame him.

 _Fool_ , she chastised. _Even were Ser Humfrey widely known, no man would admit to being beaten by the likes of me._

“I do not know a Ser Humfrey,” he told her. “I merely received a raven from Lord Selwyn enquiring as to whether a suitable partner had been found for his daughter to spar with.”

Her heart had not stopped thudding since the moment Jaime appeared; now it seemed like to leap from her chest.

“I take it that he does not mean the sparring that takes place in a marriage bed,” Jaime continued amiably. “Though you and I well know partners are lacking in that practice yard as well.”

Brienne did not think her face could grow hotter, but the insinuation caught her unprepared and brought a new flush to her cheeks. The color creeping down her neck perturbed her; she had done nothing that was not expected of her, and Ser Jaime had seemed satisfied enough at the time.

Anger loosed her tongue.

“You have not seen me fight, ser. Do not think to judge me before you have.”

His laugh was startled and incredulous.

“So the new lioness has claws, does she? I confess I sorely wish to try them.”

The words were nothing she had not heard before. Pat the foolish, unruly girl upon the head, divert oneself by testing her skill, and make her a private jape.

Brienne yearned for it almost as much as she loathed the thought. To feel a blade in her hand—to cross with Jaime the Goldenhand—would be worth nearly any slight on her pride.

“You would not find me so easy a target as you imagine.”

“And tell me, my Lady of Lannister, have you seen many battles? In which tourneys have you competed? Like as not I was in them.”

 _Like as not I won them_ , went unsaid.

Brienne had no response. She had seen no battles, fought in no tournaments.

As he well knew.

“You should not discount me so readily, my lord,” she muttered, obstinate.

His mouth twitched, and he moved forward to join her at the parapet.

“You will not surrender, I will give you that.”

“One does not defeat foes by overpowering them; one defeats foes by outlasting them.”

 _Wait and watch, girl_ , she heard Ser Goodwin coax in her memory.

“Clearly you have not met the Mountain nor the Hound,” Jaime observed, running a hand along the worn stone crenellation.

“Monsters, not men.”

She imagined fighting the one would be much the same as fighting the other. Monsters or men, all who fought her undervalued her skill.

Jaime shrugged and turned to face the sea.

The waves upon the rocks did not hum as on a shore, but seemed to crash and break and rear up again, more vengeful than ever.

“You come here often,” Jaime observed.

Brienne blinked.

“You follow word of me?” she asked, wary.

“The servants like to gossip,” he told her. “You are, after all, my lady wife.”

Brienne pursed her lips and gazed out at the water.

It was not restful here. It seemed to Brienne that the waves beneath the Rock were nearly as unruly as the Lannisters who lived within it.

When she chanced a glance at Jaime even his eyes seemed as green and fathomless as the rushing tide.

 _One day I will master these waters_ , she told herself. _Perhaps I might make the long journey home._

But one day was not now, and Brienne was far from the Sapphire Isle. The waters ahead looked uncertain.

“Was that you in the armory?” she asked after the silence stretched and grew weary. She had never been quick of wit or glib of tongue. She could think of nothing better than to ask a question she could well have answered herself. It stirred the air, if nothing else.

“It was,” Jaime acknowledged. “There are many armories in the castle, but this one affords the most pleasant view.”

 _I have seen far fairer_ , she wanted to say, but could not.

“The view is fair indeed.”

Jaime’s chuckle held little mirth.

“That is a woman’s gentle response if ever I heard one.”

“Would you have me call it dreary, ser?” she asked.

She was sure her vexation was clear through her efforts to remain courteous.

Jaime shrugged. When he glanced at her he looked weary.

“If you think it.”

Brienne met his gaze, and somehow there seemed a sort of challenge in them. Foolish she may be, bobbing and curtseying and dreaming of dagger and mail, but no Mistress of Casterly Rock had ever been accused of cowardice; Brienne would not be the first.

“The Rock is dreary, ser, its waters more silt than salt.”

A smile flitted across Jaime’s lips, then faded away.

“That’s true enough, I suppose. But never was any place so worth the trouble.”

“Why is that, my lord?”

It was well defended. Natural barriers to enemy forces, nigh as impregnable as the Eyrie. But its waters seemed as like to founder friend as foe.

“It is home,” he replied simply.

Brienne’s sound of acknowledgment was more a grunt than anything. She flinched inside her head.

But Jaime was watching the sea slap and skitter across the rocks. If he noticed her lack of refinement, he did not say so.

Brienne bit her lip as the silence grew uncomfortable. She had not noticed before, but her bodice fit too snugly; it seemed to catch each breath and steal its depth.

She watched the sun touch its reflection, wondering if she might make her excuses and slip away.

“I came here often as a boy,” Jaime remarked unexpectedly.

For a moment the years seemed gone in his eyes. They were as bright as grass nourished by the waterfalls of Tarth, as clear as the streams that fed them.

“At nine, maybe ten. Just before I was squired to Lord Sumner Crakehall. I would climb these battlements on a summer’s eve and lose myself in fancies that Casterly Rock was under siege, and only my prowess could save us.”

He gave a disparaging laugh and fingered a jagged row of nicks in the stone, their edges soft with age.

“Perhaps the rocks will afford you the same hopes.”

“I am not a child, my lord,” she told him, an edge to her tone.

He glanced up at her and shook himself free of whatever melancholy had taken him.

“Certainly not.”

Jaime Lannister had the uncanny ability to turn the most innocuous words into something that flamed her from scalp to breastbone.

He laughed.

She scowled.

“Our bannermen have declared a banquet in our honor,” he told her, still amused. “So that I might remember their good service and inform the Hand of their petty woes.”

The way he said “our” did not disguise the fact that the honor was for him alone. Brienne was oddly gratified by the courtesy, though the word “banquet” made her cringe. Her only solace in the Golden Gallery was that the sworn lords and ladies ignored her quite as thoroughly as her lord husband was wont to do.

“I thought to warn you fairly, so you might slip away to the bathhouse before your maidservants accost you.”

She meant to say, “thank you,” but instead replied, “As they accost you?”

“Always,” Jaime said fervently, and the distaste in his expression made her bark a laugh.

He blinked and tilted his head to look at her, and Brienne cut short her mirth, suddenly unsure. He watched her, unblinking, until she chewed her lip and studied the swish her skirts made as her slippers traced unseen patterns in the salt-grime beneath her feet.

“Well?” Jaime inquired brusquely. “Are you going to go?”

Brienne stiffened, nodded shortly, and spun.

Her eyes did not stray to the armory as she stalked by, nor did she turn her head to glance at the man she left behind. If his lips bore a sardonic smile, she did not care to see it.


	3. Jaime

Despite the shame of his House, Renly Baratheon was full of easy arrogance.

Jaime could not find it in him to smile pleasantly, so he made his excuses and joined his brother, who was not so deep in his cups as to be poor company.

“My dear, gallant brother,” Tyrion had jested, seeing the sourness in Jaime’s expression. “Fighting for the honor of his lady wife through sullen silence.”

There had been some minor scandal with Renly Baratheon and the former Maid of Tarth, Jaime remembered then. The fool had courted her most earnestly for nearly a fortnight, and Lord Selwyn had seemed like to accept despite the inequality of the match. But shortly thereafter Evenfall Hall had played host to Mace Tyrell and his ilk, and when they returned to Highgarden Lord Renly was with them.

 _She did well to avoid him_ , Jaime thought. _No Lady should be affixed to a noble House brought low._

Now Highgarden hosted the king and his commanders, and Renly cavorted amongst the Targaryen supporters as if Robert’s Rebellion had never taken place.

The Tyrells were one of the few Houses in Westeros powerful enough to endure the stigma of Lord Renly’s company, and it was of little mystery why Mace bore it. Those in King’s Landing ignored such dalliances, but they were not ignorant to them.

Brienne had been, Jaime was sure. From Renly’s insinuations, Jaime’s wife had been quite taken with him. If so, she was all the better for Lord Renly’s proclivities. The poor woman was skittish enough; wedding a man who could not bring himself to bed her would drive her to the Silent Sisters, like as not.

“He is much pleasanter for it,” Tyrion observed, deducing Jaime’s thoughts.

Jaime smiled, and let Tyrion make of that what he may.

Lord Tyrell and Lord Renly were speaking with Jon Targaryen, easy affability in Renly’s every smile. He would have suited the taciturn Lady Brienne ill indeed. Highgarden had gotten the lesser of that bargain, though Jaime doubted Mace knew it.

 _I dislike the man_ , Jaime thought.

Renly, not Lord Tyrell.

Cersei found Mace Tyrell irksome enough, Jaime knew, with all his attempts to wed Margaery to Jon the bastard. Rhaegar would never suffer the match, but Cersei took it as a personal affront that the Lord of Highgarden would rather wed his daughter to a natural son than offer Willas for her Jaehyra.

Young Aegon had lost his claim when he lost his mother, though it was not until Rhaegar rewed and rebred that he knew it. Legitimizing Rhaegar’s bastard had put a kink in all of Cersei’s plans. It had even undone some careful crafting of their father, but Tywin was adaptable in ways his daughter was not.

 _She fears she will not bear a son, and Rhaegar will name Jon heir_.

Cersei should know that aligning herself with Highgarden would not win her daughter the Iron Throne, but their failure to make overtures vexed her.

 _Marriages and maneuvering_ , Jaime thought sourly.

He could scarcely wait to return to Casterly Rock and leave their sister’s scheming to Tyrion.

“She lacks our father’s political finesse,” Tyrion said in response to his brother’s complaint. “He waited years for a match that would suit his needs, but our sweet sister is not like to do the same.”

“That match has left many questioning his senility,” Jaime remarked, and his brother snorted.

“Just as our lord father intended.”

Jaime rather doubted that. Lord Tywin Lannister bore nothing so ill as the scorn of others.

His brother waved down a serving girl, and Jaime rolled his eyes as Tyrion gazed more hungrily at her arse than at the food she carried.

“She is homely and slow to speak,” his little brother said when he had settled into a new cup, “But any fool can see your lady’s determination.”

It was true. Brienne was implacable. Her tenacity frustrated Jaime to no end; or would, if he had ever faced it.

_She clings to her septa’s instruction more obstinately than most maids cling to their silly songs._

“If father thinks her eager for power, he is blind and foolish,” Jaime noted.

His brother countered him.

“Our Hand has won House Targaryen the support of a growing minor house.” Tyrion tapped a finger to emphasize each point. “Our father has proven your lack of ambition and punished you for Rhaegar’s  . . . _dislike_ of you.” The word was sardonic, a knowing glint in Tyrion’s eye. “And Tywin has gained a rich, fortified island that garnered the loyalty of nearly half the Stormlords after the stag met his end in Robert’s ill-advised coup.”

Jaime could see Tarth’s usefulness well enough, but the politics of it made his head ache.

Tyrion quaffed his drink and rose, “In essence, she will win you no thrones.” His mouth turned, and for a moment he looked frighteningly like Tywin Lannister. “But her sons might.”

 _Thrones_ , Jaime groused. _It always comes down to that bloody throne_.

He did not linger at Highgarden. Mace was heard and deterred, Rhaegar’s councilors conferred, and Tywin held his own private council during which Cercei tried her best to subvert her father’s plans and Jaime stayed silent out of boredom. Then he was on a ship and out to the Sunset Sea.

His journey was swift, and before the moon’s turn his ship had docked at Lannisport. Jaime rode alone to the castle, grateful to feel sturdy ground under his horse’s hooves.

“Milady will be pleased to see you, m’lord,” a maidservant said with a warm, shy smile as she gathered his cloak, motioning another maid to clean the dust streaks his boots had left on the stone.

“Told you so, did she?” Jaime asked wryly.

The maid dithered, and Jaime fought to keep his face smooth. Nearly five months wed and Brienne had yet to meet him when he returned from a journey.

 _Perhaps I might mention to her the failure of her septa’s teachings_ , he mused.

“She will be pleased to see you, milord,” she repeated. “When she hears word of your return.”

 _When you find her_ , Jaime translated for her.

Well he had a sure enough notion where he might find her.

Salt and dust clung to his clothes, but the sea air had been brisk and Jaime felt no desire to rest. He kept his sword belt and left his saddlebags for others to tend.

The incessant roar of the sea almost disguised the dull _thwak_ of metal on wood, but as Jaime rounded the last bend and exited into the forgotten yard, its familiarity was unmistakable.

The sight that met him startled and bemused him.

He had nearly believed Lord Selwyn japing—would have, if not for the oddity of the jest and the iron in his lady’s eyes. Still, Jaime was not quite prepared for the sight of it.

She was making use of the quintain as he had never seen, raining heavy blows and darting about as the sandbag swung round on a shortened rope.

As if that were not odd enough, she had affixed a sword in the dummy’s hand. Through a system of ropes and pulleys, the blade jerked in reaction to every strike, giving Brienne both foe and blow to evade.

And she was doing an admirable job of both.

Jaime rested his shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms, content for the nonce.

Unaware of the eyes on her, Brienne fought on.

Man’s garb suited her better than dresses, he decided as he watched her. It showed the strength in her legs, the speed of her form. And her small breasts were somehow improved catching on the loose tunic instead of flattened and pressed into a stiff bodice.

 _One would think you had not yet seen her naked_ , Jaime mocked himself.

She was as broad and unfeminine as ever, yet there was something different about her here in the sunlight. Where Brienne was always ungainly and stiff, her motions now held an almost grace. Unshackled of expectation, she had forgotten her pretenses.

Brienne thrust forcefully into the weak spot of her mock foe’s armor, ducked to avoid the backlash, then, with a great two-handed blow, struck its helm clean off. The rusted bit of metal flew across the yard, skipped once, and clanked to a halt upon his boot.

Laughter burst from him, and Brienne whirled, surprise bringing her sword dangerously ready before the sight of him caused her to fumble its tip into the dirt.

“You’ll rust your blade.” He fought to keep the amusement from his tone and failed dismally.

Brienne snatched her sword from the ground. It was good steel, simply wrought but finely balanced. Another moment and it was stashed with the tarnished practice blades.

Nimble fingers loosed a knot, and the quintain’s sandbag dropped to its normal height.

Jaime watched her work, absorbed by the ease of her fingers and the rigidity of her steps.

She fumbled for her cloak, settling it about her shoulders and tugging it close to her breast. The cloak was fine and heavy; none would suspect that beneath its silken folds the Lady Brienne wore nothing more than linen breeches and a padded tunic. If not for the color in her cheeks and her mussed flaxen hair, Jaime himself might not suspect she had done more today than embroider pillows.

“Stay, my lady,” he entreated. “The day is long, yet, and the light good.”

He palmed his sword hilt and wondered how quickly he should vanquish her.

_Is it unwise to best one’s wife in swordplay?_

“I am sorry, my lord,” Brienne excused herself.

She made as if to bow before remembering herself and jerking into a curtsy. The motion looked odd, and her cloak gaped, exposing the practice garb underneath.

_As unlikely a woman as I have ever known._

Jaime watched her leave, a touch of regret in the fingers tracing his grip. She could have little more experience than many green squires, but her form was good and her blows true. It would have made for a diverting fight.

Jaime could not say why, but the notion took hold of him and refused to slacken. More and more he saw her with color in her cheeks, sweat in her hair, but he could not catch her at it.

“Dismember the quintain today?” he began to quip as they undressed in their solar by moonlight.

Some nights she colored, others she paled, but increasingly she simply turned down the coverlet on her side of the enormous feather bed and went to sleep.

Jaime began wearing his blade about the keep. Once over breakfast he unsheathed it, holding it aloft so that the hazy sunlight might catch the gold plating.

“I believe I will train with the squires today,” he announced, running a thumb along the edge.

Brienne’s clear blue eyes showed desire and frustration, but with obvious effort she kept her expression hollow.

“My lord will remember young Pod, I trust?”

Podrick Payne was a small, stuttering boy his Uncle Kevan had foisted on him on his last visit. The boy’s training was abysmal and he seemed less inclined to look Jaime in the eye than even the Lady Brienne.

“Fear not, my lady. The boy will be besting you in no time.”

He cornered Podrick in the bailey, but the boy told Jaime nothing he did not already know.

“I don’t s-speak with her, ser.” The boy shuffled his feet and looked to the ground. “She just s-says things, sometimes, when I p-p-practice.”

“Things?” Jaime raised a brow, hoping to intimidate the boy into speaking.

His gesture had the opposite effect. It seemed a quarter hour before the boy forced the words free.

“T-things,” he said finally. “Like p-pick up your p-point and be p-p-patient.”

Jaime patted the boy on the back and sent him on his way.

It was a futile quest, it seemed, and Jaime did not know why he bothered. Only that his marriage was dreadfully dull, and nothing was more like to stir his blood than crossing blades.

Dancing with one’s wife in truth was an amusement few men could boast.

The moon had turned before Jaime found his chance.

He had just managed to settle a taxation dispute between two of his bannermen, and was slipping to his solar to write an onerous letter to Lord Lefford of the Golden Tooth when he caught sight of them.

They were in the main yard, Brienne motioning Podrick to widen his grip on the dull practice blade as the boy watched her with rapt attention.

 _Good advice_ , Jaime thought as he studied how the splayed fingers shifted the angle of the boy’s arm.

The squire needed the aid, that much was clear. He learned his lessons quickly, but Casterly Rock’s master-at-arms had other lads from better Houses to keep his focus. The boy was still greener than spring on the Summer Islands.

Jaime watched them a moment until Pod caught sight of him. The sword tumbled to the grass, and before he could blink the boy was gone. Brienne seemed almost as like to flee as the squire, but after a moment she stooped to recover the blade, standing stiffly as Jaime approached her.

He almost suggested crossing swords—his was sheathed on his belt, as it always was of late. But she wore a gown inlaid with lace, and someone had intricately wrought her hair, thin though it was, into a braided heap atop her head.

_Another day, then._

She was poised to accept chastisement—or perhaps an unkind jest—regarding her involvement in the boy’s tutelage.

Jaime changed tact.

“That gown suits you well, my lady.”

Consternation spread across her brow. Brienne bent to study herself critically and came up wanting. When her chin tilted up her eyes were flitting between offense and discomfiture.

The delicate layers of lace did little for her, in truth, and the complex weave of her dry hair only emphasized the plainness of her face. But the blue damask drew attention to her rather astonishing eyes, and the wisps of hair that escaped their binding made her face look softer, somehow.

“I confess I thought your isle misnomered,” Jaime continued blithely, “As it is not rich in gemstones. But now it is plain why they call Tarth the Sapphire Isle.”

Brienne reddened.

“Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle for the blue of its waters,” she said, perplexed.

Irrationally, her response threw Jaime out of sorts. When he spoke again, his words were harsher than intended.

“Forgive me. I did not know my Lady received compliments so poorly.”

“Every maid in the Kingdoms knows my lord gives compliments freely, and means them but seldom.”

Smallfolk and highborn alike regarded Jaime Lannister as little more than the overindulged brother of the queen: a golden arm in golden armor. Every maid he spurned had done nothing more than fabricate his advances in her own silly head.

“Come, lady, you know me better than that.”

She opened her mouth to object, then stubbornly left her words unvoiced.

He took her silence as acquiescence.

“Just as I know you desire nothing more than to wield a blade.”

He was not sure why he slid Goldclaw from its scabbard, but the wench was so surprised when he handed her the hilt that she nearly dropped the practice sword.

“Take it,” he instructed decisively.

She obeyed, holding it almost gingerly as her eyes traced the lion pommel, the garnets in the hilt, the vicious edge gleaming gold from haft to point.

Then her fingers tightened, strong and familiar, and she twisted the blade round to test the weight of it.

When her eyes flicked back to his, they shone.

“This is the blade with which you held off Robert’s armies. The blade that won you the tourney at Harrenhal.”

“My skill won me Harrenhal,” said Jaime wryly.

Brienne remembered herself and reluctantly made to return his blade.

Instead he took the practice sword, hefting it and noting the difference in balance and craftsmanship.

Brienne held Goldclaw as though he would reclaim it at any moment, but her eyes were memorizing its details.

“It is a beautiful weapon, my lord.”

“Jaime,” he corrected, unaccountably frustrated. “You have shared my bed for half a year, lady, and it would please me if you spoke as such.”

“As you call me Brienne, ser?” she countered.

His frustration ebbed more quickly than it had come.

“Brienne,” he addressed her softly.

Her blue eyes pierced him, and it seemed to him days passed before she satisfied herself as to his sincerity.

“Jaime,” she said grudgingly.

Her hand was tight on the hilt of his blade, and Jaime could not help but ask, “Spar with me, Brienne.”

Her fingers tensed until the knuckles showed white, freckles stark against her skin.

Then her fingers shifted, and her feet were moving, and before he knew it Goldclaw’s blade was meeting the tourney sword in his hand, and sparks were alight in the air.

Jaime felt as though the fire leaped down his blade and into his core.

Their blades sprang apart and met once more; kissed; caressed in an ageless dance more intricate and intimate than any set to song.

 _You never truly know a man until you fight him_. Jaime had always found it true, but it was strange and intoxicating to learn his lady wife in such a way.

Brienne was swift, her arm true.

He settled into an easy rhythm, giving her time to find her pace. Sooner than he would have supposed she was meeting him stroke for stroke, turn for turn, slash and parry.

 _She is not half bad,_ he thought, astonished and delighted. _Better than any squire._

She cut above his thrust, leaving a neat slash in the linen of his coat, and he amended his assessment.

_Better than half the bloody knights I’ve bested at tourneys._

He smiled with relish and put more of his weight into the blows.

She fended him off, only missing once or twice. The dull edge of the practice sword glanced off her ribs, and he pulled back with a grimace.

_No padding, no armor. Just lace and blue brocade._

A bloody bruise would be painted across her ribs tonight.

But Brienne did not slow. She took his hesitation and used it against him, as implacable as ever. Unrelenting as he might have been, were their situations reversed.

Jaime grit his teeth and fought her off.

His blade moved swift, and he swifter. Soon Brienne was in retreat, pushed steadily backwards by the skill of his sword. He rained blows on her, and it seemed all she could do to stay clear of each strike.

Their blades met, slid, and Jaime inclined his body into hers until the weight of self and sword were one. He could feel the heat radiating from her, read surprise and consternation in the set of her brow. His foot inched forward and Jaime slipped one leg between both of hers.

His boot caught on an edge of lace, and Brienne slipped away, twisting his foot from under him. He turned the mischance into a lunge; she avoided his blade by half a heartbeat.

And then she had a new weapon to consider, and Jaime had but one.

Brienne was hindered by the weight of her gown, but she was more accustomed to it than he. She knew how it flowed and caught, when light steps were needed and when she must move with purpose. Jaime found himself stumbling as folds of silk tangled about his ankles at every turn.

“How - do you - women,” he asked between strokes, pushing harder than before. “Put – up – with – those - “ He twisted to avoid her blade, but the flat of it caught him on the shoulder.

 _She did that on purpose_ , he realized. _Because my blade is blunted._

That goaded him. He was Jaime the Goldenhand; he did not need his opponents to balance the lists. Especially not his _wife_.

“- _blasted dresses_?” he growled.

She grunted instead of answering, and he let her shove him back.

They stood poised, breathing heavy, reading every flicker of movement for shifts of intent.

“They are cumbersome,” Brienne admitted, and she seemed less weary than by all rights she should be. “But gowns conceal much.”

Her stance had shifted, he realized too late. He whipped his blade forward in a hard arc, but her ringing blow forced his hands backwards.

 _Fool,_ he cursed _, letting her distract you._

That was a blunder made for fresh squires, not for Jaime bloody Lannister.

But now that she had the advantage, he was finding it difficult to press her. Time and again he parried; time and again she attacked.

To his utter astonishment, she was actually _increasing_ the force of her blows.

 _If I don’t end this_. . .

It was too much to even think it.

With a growl Jaime darted forward, pulled back his blade as she went to counterstroke and whirled around to her other side. She blocked his blow, and the next, but her cadence was off.

 _I have her_ , he knew.

With a final, two-handed swing his sword went skittering across the grass and Jaime held the blunted edge of a tourney blade to his wife’s throat.

He met her eyes.

She tensed.

Those sapphire eyes were bright, frustration and satisfaction and an odd cast of accomplishment dancing between them before he could so much as blink. She was calculating, adjusting tactics, determining how to bolster her strengths and counteract her weaknesses. The steps were as familiar to him as breathing.

Jaime let the blade drop, breathing harder than he had a moment ago.

Brienne stooped to reclaim his sword, and he noticed with some amusement that her skirts were dust and grass to the knee.

“Thank you, ser,” she said fervently. She seemed to war with herself, and after a long stretch she amended, “Jaime.”

They were both still breathless.

A smile twitched across his lips.

“Again,” he said, lifting his sword.

And they began again.


	4. Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry about falling down on uploading this. And writing it. And responding to comments. Thank you, sincerely, to everyone who has asked about this fic and whether it will continue. The response to this fic honestly boggles me a little in the best possible way. I promise I have read and cherished every single comment.
> 
> So. Status. 
> 
> Let me assure you I have no intention of abandoning this fic. As some of you may know, life got in the way a little bit, and the quality of my chapters was starting to suffer. I am so determined to make this fic both historically & character accurate as far as canon is concerned (yes, it's an AU, but I want to get the details right and capture the sense of Westeros). Which takes quite a lot of time and energy. And when I started writing West Eros High I realized how much simpler it was to write modern AUs because I didn't bend myself in knots thinking about everything I may have done wrong.
> 
> Anyway, now that my neuroses are all out there: yes, this fic will be continued. I couldn't say when, but I'm hoping it will be soon. WEH is nearly done, and once that's finished (and I work on a few side fics I've been ignoring) I'm going to immerse myself in this AU once more. But to really write it properly I have to really get into a specific mindset, so . . . I'll get there. Promise.
> 
> Til then, here's chapter 4. I have 7 chapters written, so feel free to bug me if I go a few weeks without giving you the next one.

Training with Jaime lifted the gloom of Casterly Rock.

He was quick and cunning, less strong than she, but more skilled by far. Most days she could scarcely keep up, but each time he swept her sword aside, she came back more determined than ever.

She thought about it as she managed the kitchens, refought their last bout while speaking to the castellan, twisted her needle like a sword point when lumbering through her stitches. It carried her through the ladies’ cruel smiles at tea, through gown fittings and her seamstress’ dismay at the mannishness of her body.

 _Today I must bear this_ , she thought, _but tonight is for Jaime_.

Her defenses had gone to rust with naught but a quintain to try her, but it seemed to Brienne that these two months had taught her more than any of Ser Goodwin’s lessons.

Many nights as they lay abed, Brienne considered the expanse of blankets between them and feared Jaime would grow restless with their evening exercise. She was skilled, she knew, but Jaime was untouchable. He had fought in tournaments from Sunspear to the Trident, vanquished foes in the cold, white North, and lead battles across the Seven Kingdoms without ever facing defeat.

But every evening he awaited her, practice sword in hand. Every sunset they moved together, reacting as if their bodies were twined at a single point. As though their blades were two sides of the same weapon, and one could not move without the other.

And he smiled at her. Not the arrogant, cynical smile she had come to know, nor the cruel grimace she had seen all her life, but a slight turn of his lips that grew wider each time she turned his blade aside. Pleasure and consternation mingled on his strong, handsome face, and Brienne felt almost content.

But there were still the days, the stares and servants and endless tasks required of Lady Lannister. Still the mornings she would slip to the outer battlements to stare at the sea, and the nights she would lie awake and know she had failed to tempt him in the ways that were necessary.

 _Would he touch me if I were pretty?_ she wondered, and hated herself for it.

The rumors were growing worse every day.

It was not only Brienne who drew lengthy stares now. Jaime’s retainers watched him with pensive eyes; servants scuttled away, whispering, after he passed; even squires flicked round their gazes when he corrected them, confused half-knowledge in their faces.

It was not ten days into their marriage before Brienne realized even the stable boys were privy to her wifely failures. The washerwomen of the Rock were no newly flowered girls; they knew what clean bedclothes meant. And servants gossiped, more quickly and more cruelly than any highborn lady.

That he hesitated was understandable. Expected even. Brienne had long known that any husband of hers would perform his duties quickly and sparingly. Jaime was strong and fierce and beautiful, Brienne broad, unsure, and more spotted than a toad. If he had not brought himself to touch her again after that first night, well, that gave no cause for censure.

Fighting in the rundown practice yard did. She and Jaime sparred loudly and zealously, and many a passing scrub boy had glimpsed that first, glorious fight in the bailey.

“Small wonder,” Brienne heard a maid gossip one eve when she slipped to her chamber for tunic and breeches. “She’s more man’n half the lads’ve had their cock in me.”

Brienne left without changing her gown and spent a long twilight staring at the darkening sea. When she returned to their chambers half the night had gone, and Jaime was sleeping with his face hidden in shadow.

But the next night he was waiting in the yard, and they fought til grey predawn twinkled against the salt on the keep.

It was a routine Brienne cherished, and one that could not last.

Another fortnight came and went, and then a raven arrived from King’s Landing with the command that Brienne was to join her lord husband at the New Keep.

“Jaehyra is turning nine,” Jaime soothed when it became clear Brienne was too unnerved to properly duel.

He planted his blade’s blunted end in the dust and rested his weight against it. Sweat rolled down his temple, but the linen of his tunic had not yet begun to stick.

“Cersei likes to turn out half the Crownlands for her nameday celebrations. It’s a small wonder she’d want both of us in attendance.”

Brienne felt as though she were twelve again and the Hand’s unlanded cousin had thrown a rose in her face.

 _Everyone will know_ , she could hear herself tell her father.

 _Everyone will know_ , she wanted to shout at her husband.

“She seems a sweet thing,” Brienne hedged.

Jaime looked at her long and hard, but allowed her the evasion.

“Sweeter than she has any right to be,” he ceded.

His jaw spoke of bitterness.

They did not fight that night, or any night thereafter. Her days were taken with planning for their journey, her nights with restless worry. And soon they were in King’s Landing, with eyes everywhere and no room for misstep.

Jaime spent his days with his brother, with his father, even with his nephew Jon, though the two seemed irreparably dissimilar and did not often agree.

Brienne prayed in the Great Sept and allowed the holy women to show her the wonders of King’s Landing. The city was filth and finery, but her guides carefully skirted the city’s underbelly, even when Brienne wished to walk the Iron Gate and saw from Flea Bottom to Blackwater Bay.

She avoided the nobles in the castle as diligently as the septas pretended King’s Landing went no further than the Keep. Once she caught Jaime’s father watching her as she walked the tourney grounds. She was so disconcerted by his appraising stare that she took herself to the Maidenvault, where she wandered for the rest of the day.

She dearly wished to visit Dragonpit, the cavernous structure that had been home to monsters and now housed the wonders of the Seven Kingdoms: legendary swords, glittering magic stones, the fragile skeletons of fantastic beasts.

But that was not a place for proper ladies, as here, of all places, Brienne must be.

“I will show you Maegor’s Holdfast,” Jaime promised, sensing her discontent. “My sister’s blasted spies be damned.”

But Lord Tywin seemed always to need him, or else he was treating with lords, and Brienne had no desire to keep him from his duties.

The morn of Jaehyra’s nameday dawned all in fog, and Brienne slipped her coverlet before Jaime stirred. She found a tower that overlooked the water, and found herself wondering how the Narrow Sea could look so different from Evenfall Hall.

Festivities began at noon and lasted well into the evening.

Brienne wore a gown of purple velvet, gifted on her wedding day by some lord and lady likely in attendance that night. The queen’s own dressmaker had cut it for her—a simple style that suited Brienne better than most—and offset it with a delicate brooch that was lost in the flat expanse of her bosom.

She entered on her lord husband’s arm. The hard planes of his muscles reminded Brienne how desperately she wished to be elsewhere, trying Jaime’s strength against her own, with no eyes on her but his.

“Words are wind,” Jaime said low in her ear.

The heat of his breath raised hair across her body, but Brienne muttered back, “Wind is wind. Words are weapons, sharper than the sword on your belt.”

 _Words are wisdom_ , she thought, _learned too late._

“Swords cut both ways,” he reminded her.

He tucked his arm close, and she felt the comfortable press of Goldclaw’s hilt where her fingers crooked in his elbow.

“And no one handles a blade better than you and I.”

For a time, the bleakness receded. Brienne could not bring herself to smile at those who approached them, though, and soon Lord Marbrand had pulled Jaime away. Brienne was left in a dim alcove near the minstrels, ducking into shadow whenever someone drew near.

The hall was golden and hazy, piled high with lavish food and lavish adornments. Black and red tapestries draped every available surface, and the Targaryen arms, inlaid in every fifth tile, glistened in the light of a thousand candles.

Dornishmen wandered amongst the guests, Brienne was surprised to note; though none she saw bore the arms of House Martell.

House Martell held an uneven peace with the crown. Prince Doran regarded Rhaegar fondly, but it was no secret that Oberyn and his Sand Snakes thought Lord Tywin responsible for the death of Princess Elia and her daughter in the birthing bed.

 _He would know better than anyone_ , came the cruel suggestion, before Brienne had stopped listening.

A wisp of a girl in a cloth-of-silver gown swayed past, and it took Brienne several moments to recognize her niece. She was richer of hair than her father, her eyes caught between purple and green, but her features favored the Targaryen line.

The girl’s eyes were closed as she attended the music, but when Brienne spoke she turned.

“Princess Jaehyra,” Brienne greeted, “I am Brienne, your aunt of Lannister.”

Jaehyra abandoned the minstrels and stepped forward to observe her aunt fully.

“You are very tall,” the princess said. “Taller than mine nuncle.”

The girl was quiet, sweet. Lovely in a way that made Brienne ache.

“Only a little,” she said, keeping her voice even. _A knuckle’s length._ It seemed a greater span here, with the eyes of the kingdom upon them. “Songs tell stranger tales,” Brienne told her, but neither girl nor woman believed it.

“Books, perhaps, but not songs,” Jaehyra corrected. “Maids in songs are delicate and free.”

 _Not me_ , Brienne thought.

She stopped herself from picking at the embroidery of her velvet gown.

“The minstrels always sing of lively maids,” her niece finished softly, and Brienne heard longing.

 _And not you either_.

“Not all,” Brienne disagreed, wishing to keep the sadness from those beautiful, bruise colored eyes. “Some ladies in songs are brave, some are cunning, and all are fair to look upon.”

Her pretty child’s mouth twisted doubtfully.

“Do you know ‘Let Me Drink Your Beauty?’”

The innocent query stung, but Brienne nodded. “I know all the songs,” Brienne told her, and somehow the shadows lifted.

“Will you sing for me?” the girl asked eagerly. Her eyes shifted from lilac to the color of the sea.

 _I do not sing anymore_ , Brienne could not bring herself to say.

Her niece turned and Brienne stiffened.

“Come, sweet,” the queen chastised, sidling up beside them with every spec of grace the gods had denied Brienne.

The queen was striking, garbed in a cloth-of-gold gown that reminded Brienne uncomfortably of her wedding garment. The too-rich fabric had made Brienne look mottled, catching out her freckles and turning the skin beneath them sallow.

Cersei Lannister was a goddess in gold.

“You must not rot your mind with songs best left to fools and lackwit children.”

Cersei caressed her daughter’s cheek, then smoothed her hair and fluffed out her silver skirts, arranging them artfully.

The girl’s expression fell, though she hid it well.

Brienne pitied her.

 _You are slow and foolish_ , Septa Roelle had often told her, and the words never failed to cut. Brienne imagined they ached no less for one with a pretty face.

“Your grandsire has not yet wished you well,” Cersei reminded her. “And I must have words with your aunt.”

Jaehyra curtsied prettily and left them.

Brienne felt ungainly, anxious.

“Your Highness - “ she began—to say what she was not sure.

Cersei smiled, sharp and beautiful, and Brienne’s words were lost.

“Lady Brienne,” she said, sweet and catching as honey. “You have been remiss in your sisterly duties.”

Brienne felt an uncomfortable jolt despite herself.

 _It is a trap_.

She could see it plain as day in Cersei’s stormy, evergreen eyes.

 _So like Jaime’s_.

But knowing did not mean evading, and Brienne did not know what to say.

“Not once have you joined my brother on his travels,” the queen continued. “It grows dreadfully dull, lambkin, bearing all that talk of war and weapons.”

 _I am not a child_ , Brienne nearly said. _Nor a lamb for you to slaughter_.

But Cersei’s eyes were glittering in a way that Jaime’s never did, and Brienne kept silent.

The queen’s smile was practiced, cloying.

“I only wonder that my dear brother goes so long without a woman to warm his bed.”

 _She knows_ , Brienne realized miserably.

Cersei leaned close and murmured, “Perhaps you might sing your niece, ‘Her Little Flower.’”

Brienne felt hot all over, and no matter how she tried she could not stop the ribald lyrics from echoing through her mind.

The queen’s expression was amused; she saw Brienne’s chagrin and savored it.

“My brother,” she finished lightly, “has the self-control of a septon.”

Brienne’s feet were rooted to the tiles.

 _A man would need the patience of a septon to endure such a wife_ , Ser Humphrey had told her father.

 _The gods themselves could not make a man blind enough to wed her,_ the Evenstar’s own septon had murmured, when Lord Renly had gone and her prospects seemed bleak and bitter.

 _Nor blind enough to bed me_ , she knew.

No steel could cut so deeply as words.

Cersei’s eyes flicked up, and that was all the warning Brienne had. She did not have time to panic before Jaime’s hand was sliding across her back, a touch more intimate than any they had shared in the privacy of their chambers.

“Brienne,” he greeted, voice low and level. “Sister.”

“Jaime.” Cersei’s voice was cool, her eyes still laughing.

Brienne managed a croaking, “My lord,” that made her good-sister’s eyes leap with glee.

“Pray excuse us.”

With no further word Jaime turned Brienne and towed her through the clustering crowds. His arm slipped from her waist once she gained momentum, but he did not pause until they were half a hall-span from the queen and nearing the large outer doors.

“It grows stuffy in this monstrous hall,” Jaime complained. “I’ve a mind to walk the yard.”

She followed him, relieved when the muggy night air touched her face.

She did not know where to go, nor did he. They wandered, aimless, until the sweat dried on her gown and breathing felt normal. Then Jaime’s feet gained a mind, and she followed as he disappeared into the night.

The Tower of the Hand looked black in the midnight gloom. Jaime circled its base, hunting, until he stopped beside a dying willow. A stone choked it from its roots.

A pool with a low stone rim was trenched beneath the willow. Its water seemed to whisper in the night.

Jaime glanced up the looming expanse and indicated a spot high up the stone.

“There,” he muttered, and turned almost before she had a chance to see the shadow, a dim square blacker than the rest.

He slid down the wall and sat upon the hard ground.

Brienne nearly joined him, but on the last moment she remembered her pretty velvet gown and the eyes that were never far. She sat heavily on the edge of the pool, facing him.

“Seven hells, how I hated that tower,” Jaime grumbled.

 _This is where he lived_ , she realized _, when his father was Hand for Aerys._

“Lords and ladies coming and going, rats scuttling about the walls, endless bloody rows between the Hand and the king. And never enough tourneys to escape it all.”

He sounded rueful. Bitter. His hair looked Targaryen white in the moonglow.

Jaime gestured again, and this time Brienne saw a tower, white with reflected light.

“I used to dream of joining the Kingsguard,” he told her, as the moon danced shadows across White Sword Tower. “When Cersei - “

He broke off, a derisive laugh caught in his throat.

Tension snaked up Brienne’s spine.

She did not know how to dispel the memories hanging heavy beneath the willow. No more than she could dispel her own unforgiving remembrances.

“You would have defended the king admirably.”

Brienne truly believed that. Jaime was strong, gifted, and not so unfeeling as other men supposed.

A shadow crossed her husband’s face, and she could not read its cause.

“The cloak would have spoiled me, or I it,” he said, voice hard. “I was not made for bloodless things.”

 _No_ , Brienne agreed. _You were made for sunlight. For Lannister gold and crimson._

 _You were not made for loneliness as I was_.

But she was not alone now. Not truly.

A breeze rustled her skirts and swirled amongst the leaves. In the pool, shadows rippled across the deep reflection of the willow tree.

“I wish to return to the Rock,” Brienne muttered to the few, resilient stalks of grass sprouting from the hard packed-dirt.

Jaime blinked, taken aback by her admission.

Indeed, Brienne did not know where the thought came from, nor why she voiced it. Only that the watery leaves reminded her of the Sunset Sea, and it seemed a safer place than here.

Jaime’s eyes were cautious, but when he spoke his voice was fervent.

“As do I,” he agreed.

Standing, Jaime offered her a hand.

“We will take leave in the morning, and ten days hence we’ll be home.”

She took his hand, and the night was all the colder when he freed her.

She looked at the dark stone tower, the pitch-colored recession high on its face.

 _Home_ , she thought sadly. _I do not know where home is anymore_.


	5. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be the last chapter for a few weeks. I have 2 more written, but in my estimation they need fairly extensive rewrites (whereas the chapters to this point have only needed minor changes to punctuation and wording). I'll tackle chapter 6 as soon as I can, but I am intending to write the last handful of chapters of WEH first. I'm honestly so excited to find the time to get back to this fic, though. I can promise you I'll post the next section as soon as is feasible.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who's stuck with this story, and doubly to everyone who's commented. I don't know what I'd do without you guys, seriously. I'd be that sad girl writing fic in the dark corner of my bedroom and stuffing it under my mattress so none of my friends would see. And nobody wants me to go Emily Dickinson on this fandom.

_Hear me roar_ , Jaime thought dourly, twisting Goldclaw’s hilt so the golden blade reflected sharply in the afternoon sunlight.

Brienne had long since disappeared down the endless hall, intent on planning some grand dinner or organizing the guest chambers or some other combination of tasks that terrified her.

Jaime was left looking out the broad window, contemplating the loss of his afternoon and several yet to come.

It seemed every sennight some Lannister or other was growling about Casterly Rock; or else some raven bore tidings and expectations from King’s Landing; or else Lord Tywin was requesting Jaime’s presence abroad, and Jaime knew well not to object.

It had not mattered so much before, when political intrigues were made almost bearable for his brother’s company, and all he left behind was the broad, brooding face of a bride as fond of ignoring him as he was of her.

But he had fallen into a sort of routine, and interruptions were more frequent than not, of late.

Jaime sheathed his blade, perturbed by his foul mood. He and Brienne had not argued, precisely. There had simply been a contest of wills, and his had come up wanting.

“It is your duty as heir to the Rock to sup with its guests,” Brienne had insisted. “And your duty as nephew to make your aunt welcome.”

She was dressed in red—simple skirts and a boned bodice, as suited her best. Jaime preferred her in blue—and in breeches best of all—but no one seemed inclined to ask his opinion. A Lannister arse resided in the guesthouse, and so Lannister colors would adorn the arse of his lady wife.

“Aunt Genna could not be more welcome if grandfather Tytos were lord again, and Casterly Rock were her home.”

He nearly gestured his red ear to prove the point, but concluded that childish irritation would hold little sway. He disguised the motion by catching up his wife’s hand and smiling winningly.

“Let her entertain herself with tea, and you and I can entertain ourselves elsewise.”

It had been too long since he and Brienne had done more than fumble with practice swords for a quarter hour or two. His body thrummed with energy; his mind refused to settle.

Brienne frowned at their clasped hands, sensing the ploy and subverting it with one of her own.

“Was she not like a mother to you?”

Brienne had not known her mother, as he had not known his. His aunt was as little alike Joanna Lannister as he could remember, but she had often played her role in those first, difficult years.

Penetrating sincerity was Brienne’s greatest weapon, as natural to her as sardonic misdirection was to him.

Had he not been in the midst of losing an argument, he might have paused to wonder what a far cry this Lady Lannister was from the stuttering maid at their wedding feast.

“Maternal’ is perhaps the loosest term anyone has ever applied to our relationship,” he dismissed, fingers tightening reflectively on hers.

She did not reply, but studied him intently with those strangely beautiful eyes of hers.

Jaime kept his gaze studiously unconcerned. It wouldn’t do to let her win too quickly.

She read him anyway.

“Thank you.”

Her smile was genuine, a flash of broad teeth in a broader mouth that crinkled the corners of her eyes and somehow did credit to her features.

Jaime grimaced.

_Well, I suppose I could not have avoided her forever_.

Jaime was under no illusions about his aunt’s presence in the West. Pleasure at seeing her warred with the unsettling knowledge that anything he might say to her would like as not reach his father’s ears with the next raven.

His aunt’s company he would welcome. Perhaps even coax Brienne along to watch with amusement as she either stumbled over her tea or reverted to her septa’s scripts. But Tywin’s presence unsettled him, and this seemed as like a visit from his father as Casterly Rock was like to see.

By the time the sun was two hours past its zenith, Jaime found himself in the guest’s solar, his right ear smarting from yet another affectionate yank.

“What news of the world?” he asked, leaning back against his cushioned chair.

Aunt Genna frowned at the plump pillow on her chair as though she meant to have it whipped for insolence.

“Your sister causes more trouble.” His aunt settled heavily into her seat, suffocating the offending pillow beneath her. “She has taken particular offense at the Tyrells, and means to expose the proclivities of their youngest son before the court.”

Of late, Loras Tyrell had replaced Jaime as the favorite on the tourney circuit. Were he not buried beneath duty and tedium and well versed in the fickleness of tourney followers, Jaime might have expended the energy to be offended.

“Were Ser Loras half so adept at concealing his affections as he is at winning a crowd, he may have something to fear. As it is, I believe my sister has once again misdirected her dissatisfaction.”

“Rhaegar keeps her from trouble,” his aunt noted.

“A lesser man would have lost his throne long before gaining progeny,” he agreed, ignoring the implication her statement had conjured in his thoughts.

Rheagar had kept him from trouble more so than his twin, though Jaime had not recognized it at the time.

His aunt let the topic dissipate, sensing, perhaps, that she had lost him. Politics had never been his area of expertise, and—much as he may have once denied it—neither was Cersei.

“Something stirs in the North,” she said conversationally, glancing toward the door.

Jaime would not have minded a glass of wine himself.

“Is the Greatjon causing trouble again?” he wondered. “Or perhaps Bolton wishes to suck the Northlands dry.”

The man had sent a jar of leeches as a wedding gift. Leeches, of all things.

“Have the Starks risen from the ashes of Winterfell?”

“Something is rising from the snow, they say, and it’s not traitors and their ilk.”

“Wights?” Jaime snorted. “Wildlings, more like. But that is what we have the Wall for, is it not?”

Aunt Genna smiled, glancing toward the door again.

“See that you send them a few rapists, won’t you, nephew?”

He quirked his lips.

Every few years tidings arose from the North, sightings of white walkers and rumblings of dark magic beyond the Wall. Those rumors spread with near as much alacrity as the supposition that dragons were back in the world and hidden beneath the Iron Throne.

The only hidden beasts Jaime was inclined to concede were the lions of Casterly Rock, and he had seen those for himself. Had nearly lost his hand to one, on a dare from Cersei when they were children.

The door creaked open—tea and cakes arrived at long last—and Jaime let small talk wane.

Aunt Genna tapped her fingers along her armrest, a staccato rhythm that lent itself to hurrying servants.

The serving wench unburdened her tray, laying out food and wine as Jaime and his aunt remained silent.

_She moves more meticulously than Brienne_ , Jaime thought sourly. _And with less worthy intent._

Brienne over-thought every action, never wishing to offend. This maid was simply drawn by the prospect of overhearing what business brought Lady Genna home to Casterly.

Jaime’s suspicions were confirmed when the girl lingered in the doorway, glancing back before ducking out with her tray.

He was not the only one to notice.

“You are Lion of the Rock in all but name,” Aunt Genna reproved. “You cannot afford to have the scullery girls gossiping.”

Jaime had suffered enough gossip to last him a lifetime.

“I can hardly replace every servant in Casterly Rock,” he complained.

_No matter how I wish it._

“You are a Lannister,” she reminded him sharply. “Lions do not suffer the mumbling of mice.”

_Your father would never have borne it,_ he heard, clear as though she had spoken the words.

“There are whispers, nephew - ” Aunt Genna drew herself up, a keen look in her eye, “ - that the nightly noises twixt you and your wife come from the bailey, not the bedchamber.”

Jaime shrugged, an uncomfortable itching crawling between his shoulders.

His aunt’s eyes grew firm.

“Your wife is nubile, strong. It seems you know that better than anyone.”

He could not deny it. Brienne moved with a surety few possessed, and her endurance was nothing short of astounding. Few swordsmen had presented him with such a challenge, and none had fought with her unlikely poise.

She was half-trained, true enough. But the increase of her skill these months spoke to her aptitude, and the fervor in her eyes as she made herself strong was impressive. Some inner part of him tugged oddly whenever her eyes flashed determination.

Unbidden, his mind cast an image of Brienne moving jerkily beneath him, candlelight dancing shadows across her face as she surrendered her maidenhead. Her body had met his uncertainly, and her hands were ever reaching up to touch him, nearly brushing, darting back to pick at the bedding.

Her eyes had held such resolve.

The same resolve he saw night after night in the practice yard, her face flushed as she danced with him.

Jaime felt his cock twitch, and he shifted uncomfortably on his cushion.

Aunt Genna mistook his discomfit for guilt.

“Perhaps it is not so easy spurting seed when your wife is plain of face, but you have faced worse challenges.”

Her eyes were full of scrutiny.

Jaime forced himself to stop squirming.

_I am not a fool squire caught peeping on maids in a pool._

“What does it matter if a lion cub comes squalling this year or ten years hence?” he grumbled.

“Jaime Lannister.” Her voice chastened him, but her eyes were hard. “My brother did not raise you to be a lack-wit.”

Jaime set his jaw.

“He raised me to know a man does not poison the well from which he drinks.”

Children would not uncomplicate matters if his wife found him brutish and overbearing. Brienne could endure much, of that he had no doubt. But she deserved better than a husband who forced himself on her when it was something neither he nor she wanted.

“You’d best pour some dreamwine,” his aunt retorted. “You’ll find it difficult to hide in those delusions once my brother hears word.”

“There was a bedding,” Jaime reminded her. “No septon would set us aside.”

She smiled wanly, leaned forward and cupped his cheek.

“You sweet, foolish boy,” she murmured. “Septons can be bought, just as kingships can be broken and eldest sons set aside. _Heirs_ , sweetling. Heirs are your security. _Tywin’s_ security.”

She patted his cheek, shook her head, and left him.

Jaime lingered, tearing apart the delicate pieces of bread the kitchens had sent with their tea. The tray became a mess of white imperfection, and the honeyed glaze left Jaime’s fingers sticky. He took no note of it.

His course was plain, though frustration made muddle of his thoughts and some indefinable reticence sought to haze his senses.

His aunt was right.

Jaime had spent nearly a year denying it, but sooner or late someone _would_ question his relations with his wife. His hold on the Rock. Even his ties to Tarth, if given ample suggestion and time for plotting.

Lesser lords might spend the seasons childless, building their lands, fostering the goodwill of their liegemen, enjoying their wives in the quiet of their keeps. There was no such path for Jaime Lannister. Not for the brother of the queen, the son of the Hand, nephew and cousin and uncle of those to whom the Game of Thrones was like breathing. Machinations seeped from Casterly Rock like water hidden in the stone, and Jaime was helpless to escape it.

There could be no more delaying what must be done. But knowledge of its necessity did not lessen the task looming before him.

Peculiar as it may be, Jaime and his wife had reached a point of understanding. Bonding, even, though the thought made Jaime scoff. Bonding was for men who smiled absently at their wives’ stitching and sat idle, listening to blather about feastdays and the gossip at court.

He and Brienne shared something different. A knowledge of each other he could not quite explain, but was oddly at loathe to risk.

_Kinship_ , he thought wryly, thinking of early days with Cersei, before she had become smitten with her intended and left Jaime to drown her betrayal in jousts and melees.

But no, this was different than that, too.

He had called that love, after all.


	6. Jaime and Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if anyone still follows this story, but despite three years disappearing in a blink, it's still near and dear to me. So. [cut rambling explanations] I've always regretted not finishing The Descent, always planned to come back to it. I'm not sure if that will happen now, honestly. But this chapter is a much better soft ending than the last, if it comes to that. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the immense support you've show this fic and this fandom.

Brienne gulped her tea of stinging nettle and raspberry leaf and shoved the cup clumsily onto the empty serving platter, unable to bear the sight of it. The taste of summer and spice lingered on her tongue; her teeth scraped it away in a motion as uncomfortable as it was familiar.

Maester Creylen smiled wanly, departing with the tray of fertility herbs, and Brienne wondered if she had fooled him for even an instant.

 _There is no fool here but me_. She twisted her fingers together, feeling the rough calluses of her palms scrape against the smooth skin of her wrists.

She and Jaime had not sparred in nearly six nights. Three feasts had come and gone, and Aunt Genna had returned to her Lord of Frey, but still Jaime busied himself with hearings and border disputes and tedious letters to lords in service to House Lannister.

 _“_ The bravest craven I ever saw _,”_ Jaime’s aunt had muttered that last eve, when the Lord and Lady of the Rock had bid her goodnight before retiring to their quarters. Brienne, well down the corridor, had scarcely heard, but the whisper had scraped low across her belly like a trowel on packed dirt. The words took root, gnarled and twisted.

There was no mistaking the reason for Lady Frey’s visit, no mistaking the warning in those words. Teas and tittering were acceptable for a time, but she could no longer hide behind the memory of her bedding. Soon Jaime would succeed his father, and House Lannister would be without an heir. It was the duty of Lady Lannister to provide another before Casterly Rock became bereft. Brienne would have to provide an heir soon, or yield to the knowledge that she had failed.

 _Failed_. The word was bitter and cold; it echoed with the crushing swell of laughter.

Was she truly craven? What could she fear, that she valued her duty as immaterial? What might she lose, that had not been lost to her with the cruel japes of men and children, long ago at Evenfall?

The answer sprung to her tongue, tainted by the lingering taste of nettle tea.

_Jaime._

For in gaining him, she might lose him. Lose his teasing smile—sharp enough to cut, but careful not to—as she donned her gowns each morning. Lose the angry tense of his jaw that made snide taunts whispered around corners almost bearable. Lose the determination of his movements, the respect in his eyes that blossomed anew each time they sparred.

Soon he would be repulsed by her, or come to see her as a nightly duty, or else she would have a suckling babe in the curve of her sword arm, and he would lose interest.

She _was_ craven, and she could not stand the thought. So she choked down her tea and convinced herself it was courage enough.

 _Deportment is a woman’s armor_ , Septa Roelle had told her once, when she’d found her charge in the armory, hefting a faded shield that covered her from chin to toes. _And beauty her helm_.

Brienne caught her own gaze in the looking glass in her lordship’s solar. Blue eyes. Blue gown. Blue ribbon twined in her hair, above her broad, spotted forehead.

She had spent hours in her bath, reluctantly allowing a kindly-faced septa to oil and brush the straw atop her head. It was brittle as ever and balked at the intrusion of the ribbon, but it lay almost smoothly against her temple.

Bright embellishments and oiled hair. It was the best she could do.

_How am I to win the war with no helm and no armor?_

Brienne made her will a fine steel blade and went to find her husband.

 

* * *

 

Jaime could delay no longer. For days he had distracted himself, busied himself with training squires and meeting lords and dealing with tasks so onerous he could scarcely muster the will to complete them. He was beginning to suspect that he was almost _afraid_ of doing this thing, and that was a thought beyond his ability to bear.

He gathered sword and scabbard and went to meet his wife.

Brienne was waiting for him in the practice yard. It was unusual that she arrived before him—less usual still that she wore a gown, though she had fought similarly garbed on more than one occasion, and Jaime always welcomed the opportunity to adapt his technique.

“Shall we?” He offered her a tourney sword, one that he usually favored.

Brienne’s eyebrows furrowed, and her hand wavered above the hilt before she accepted it. “Yes.”

Her voice was gravel, and something shot low through his belly as she swallowed thickly. She knew what must be done, just as he did.

“Are dresses comforting?” he asked as the absurdity of the situation struck him. Her mouth twisted dutifully at the jest, but Jaime was not fooled. Brienne smiled with her eyes, not with her lips.

She had not simply donned a dress, he realized. Her hair was clean, neater than usual, her short nails were trimmed smooth, and her skin had been scrubbed until a pink flush was apparent, even against the crimson tinge creeping up her neck.

Jaime’s mouth twisted in irritation. “Let us see how it withstands the trial.”

He hefted his dull blade and lunged at her, steel scraping forcefully down her sword before she found the presence of mind to retaliate. Off-balance as she was, it took half again her usual strength to force him back, stumbling, and regain her feet.

“Something worrying you, wench?” he mused, shifting his stance to match hers as she circled him. Her jaw clenched at the word, so careless and cavalier, so unbefitting of her station. He could not say why he savored the sight. “Perhaps you fear you’ve lost your graceful bearing?”

He swung at her almost lazily, watched her react with a simple, solid defense.

“I hate to disabuse you of your girlish fancies— ”

His blade raked past hers, blunted tip catching in the embroidered overlay at her hip. It tore almost without encouragement, hanging ragged along her left side. Brienne lost precious moments surveying the damage, glowering almost as though she were conventional and cared for such entrapments.

“—but you’ve never been particularly graceful.”

 _Nowhere but here_ , he amended to himself as her skirts flowed about her, masking the intricate footwork that placed her suddenly to his left. _And an odd sort of grace that is_. He grunted as his own defense faltered, an endless, stuttering heartbeat, before catching a familiar rhythm.

Brienne caught his thigh with the blunted edge of her sword, and it throbbed as he spun and swung. Their swords clashed together and he pivoted, bringing his point around and pulling her with him. Their bodies pressed as their blades wrestled, and Jaime could not help but chuckle. Her heart was racing, same as his.

He kicked her feet out from under her, and she fell hard onto the packed dirt, rolling as she landed. She came up on one knee, hair disheveled and ribbon askew. Dust clung to every inch of her, and Jaime felt base satisfaction that must have shown on his face. Her teeth ground behind full lips, and that was all the warning he needed to swing down as she came up at him, fierce and implacable.

“You look best with straw in your hair,” he observed, grunting as she forced her way back to her feet, “with sweat and blood staining your clothes.”

That was not entirely true. Brienne nearly divested him of his sword as he imagined her reaction should he say that she looked best divested of her smallclothes.

She hit him high, and he crossed his blade to block. She hit left and he met her, yard ringing with the song of steel. She pulled away to regroup, but he gave chase, pressing her into the armory wall. He was startled to find frustration writ plain across her face.

“You have never needed to _try_.”

Jaime was taken aback by how easily Brienne turned the words to barbs, for all that she was calling him handsome. She came at him in a concentrated fury, short hacks and sudden jabs, and Jaime found himself in retreat.

 _Never needed to try_ , he thought, remembering jousts and melees and single combat, crowds roaring at the brazen lion on his sigil.

 _Never needed to try._ Ghastly green light flickered to life behind his eyes, but it promised only death.

“If that’s how my lady would have it.” His voice was deceptively calm. She studied him, wary and poised.

Jaime tossed his sword almost carelessly into his left hand, swinging his blade in an experimental arc.

His wife blinked at him, holding her blade aloft, unsure.

Jaime grinned, tightening his grip on the practice blade. He felt the rush of discovery sweeping through him, the thrill of a fresh challenge.

“Ser— ” Brienne spoke tentatively, blade wavering.

He would not have that.

In a flash, Goldclaw was out of its scabbard. Brienne swallowed back surprise, moving more quickly than he had ever seen to attack this new threat. Jaime let her take the bait, turning at the last moment to slip Goldclaw out from under her. She fell forward, catching herself mid-stumble and swinging around in irritation. He caught her with the blade in his left hand, humming at the new, odd motion of it.

Her blade glanced off his, but she carried the motion into another arc. The blow jarred up his blade; he could feel the quiver of it to his shoulder. His fingers faltered, and he nearly dropped the practice sword. He was not expecting the weakness in his wrist, the way his forearm shook from the weight of holding her attack. From the look on her face, she had not put her full strength into it.

 _Stranger take all_ , he cursed, maneuvering Goldclaw to trap her blade between both of his. Even so, it was hard to hold his left arm steady. Brienne pressed inexorably down, and he knew he must act or be overcome.

With a strength he did not know he possessed, Jaime moved his hands as one, scraping and twisting as he forced her blade up and around.

 _I have her_ , he thought.

But he did not.

She pulled her blade back sharply, sliding free of his press, and suddenly it was Jaime stumbling forward, unbalanced by the weight of his own attack. He brought his blades up, crossed together to stop the hard swing he knew was coming. But Brienne whirled away from him, darting around the low barrier that encircled the yard and reaching blindly into the trough with the practice blades.

 _She will not gain the advantage_ , he thought, watching swords clatter to the ground as she pulled free another blade. _Double or no, blunted blades are no match for gold-plated steel_.

But her left hand looked steady in a way his did not feel.

“And so we find ourselves matched,” he called amiably, taking a moment to catch his breath.

He strolled toward the mismatched posts of the low wall. Brienne mirrored his movements, edging right as he moved left. The tension in her shoulders melted away, but nothing could shake the implacable strength in her arms. She kept her blades parallel to his, using the slow motion to test her control.

Jaime moved sharply right, then left again, never closing, enjoying the fluidity of her countermovements.

“I have never borne a blade with my left hand,” Brienne admitted as he slowed his approach once more, the barrier still between them. She did not sound so unsteady as he expected. Then again, she rarely did.

“Nor have I.” He shrugged carelessly, leaping onto the low wall and balancing several spans above her. “Shall we see how we fare?”

She stiffened below him, edging her blades up to defend an attack. Jaime eased forward on the pads of his feet, leaning into her. But he did not attack. Instead he shifted his swords closer, slantways, left, right, above, never touching, relishing the sight of his wife moving in tandem. His boots shifted surely on the rough-hewn wood, and the weight in his hands felt less unnatural that it had a moment before.

He dropped from the wall, circling her slowly. He could see the very moment Brienne understood his game. She came at him with her left blade, and he parried easily with his right. Her right swung around and slowly, awkwardly, he blocked it with the pocked steel of his practice blade.

They began slowly, two green swordsmen learning fresh steps to the dance, all concentration and no force. She blocked Goldclaw with an uppercut with her right blade, but he shifted and she was exposed, defending against two blades with only her left. She nearly lost her sword to guard her flank, so Jaime eased his attack, but she afforded him no pause before coming at him with renewed determination. He expected none.

Condensation beaded on her brow long before they increased to half speed. As their blades tested one another, the tension in his spine unraveled, dragged away by the sweat that trailed between his shoulders. They enlivened their steps as the sun disappeared behind the keep, and the moon was high above the Sunset Sea when Jaime gave into exhaustion.

“Well met, my lady,” Jaime told her, breathing hard, but satisfied. “I cannot remember last feeling so foolish, or so well-matched in my shortcomings.”

“My lord,” Brienne began, tired and pleased and something else, something quiet that he could not put name to. “You afford me . . . ” But her breath caught in her teeth, and she glanced away.

“Unlikely opportunities?” he finished wryly.

She had remembered their duties. He could read it in her stance, in each spot of color that bloomed and died on her face. His breathing may be ragged, but hers was sharp, erratic.

“Tomorrow,” he told her, more calmly than he felt.

She glanced up, relief battling stubbornness in her shadowed eyes.

“I don’t know about you,” he lied, hefting his blade and letting silvery moonglow trace odd colors onto the flat of it, “but I am rather ready for a night of undisturbed repose.”

She opened her mouth, and for a moment, an argument flirted with her full lips. But she glanced down at the blades in her hand, and the weight of the night’s exertions settled visibly onto her shoulders. She pressed her lips together, stifling the promise there.

“Tomorrow,” she murmured at last. Her body sagged, straightened, and she took his spare blade from him, depositing all three into the wooden box that housed tourney swords. She let him lead as they wound their way back to their bedchamber, and by the time Brienne had changed into a simple linen shift, Jaime was fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

 _This waiting was madness_ , Brienne realized at midmorning tea, trying not to fidget as the ladies conversed lightly about Braavosi silk. The septa who had helped her bathe the previous day examined her from across the room. The Lady of Casterly Rock was all bloodshot eyes and nervous energy, and Brienne could not hope to guess what conclusions the holy woman had reached.

It had seemed sensible enough the night before, with both she and Jaime well beyond their peak, and Brienne’s iron will worn down like the edge of her practice blade. It seemed less sensible that morning, when she awoke in the hazy predawn to study the handsome lines of his sleeping face for far longer than was appropriate.

She dressed and left before Jaime woke, unable to bear the thought that tomorrow their rapport may have changed irreparably. Ignoring that tender part of her heart that wondered if, aware as they were of the inevitability of this night, she had already lost him.

 _I have no cause to fear_ , she told herself, but the platitude gave her no comfort. Her mind reeled with everything that might go wrong. And twice or thrice, unguarded for half a breath, it reeled with the hopeless dream that everything could go, for once in her life, incredibly right.

 _Foolish maid_ . She could hear Ser Loras in her head, clear as the day he left Tarth. _Lord Renly cares nothing for silly ladies and their simple songs. Least of all for one such as_ you _._

She had known he spoke true, and the surety of that knowledge made it hurt all the more. Could it truly be any different now?

“Lady Brienne.” A feminine voice broke through her thoughts, and Brienne nearly jumped through her skin. “You were in the capitol, of late. What fashions did the ladies of King’s Landing wear?”

Distracted as she was, she could think of no one in the capitol but her niece and the queen.

“Silver,” she heard herself say. “The princess wore cloth-of-silver and Queen Cersei was garbed in gold.”

She thought of Jaehyra, the yearning in her flickering lilac eyes, and felt ashamed of her fear.

_Whatever may come, I have a place here. Whatever may come, my duty lies before me._

Brienne remembered the biting japes of the queen, sly words that left her unguarded, feeling foolish and small. She remembered the warmth of Jaime’s hand through the fabric of her dress.

 _He saved me then; he will not fail me now._ Her emotions were a snarl, too many and too ragged to untangle. _I will not fail him._

She stood abruptly, heedless of the ladies’ furtive glances, unable to tarry a moment longer. Her lord husband awaited her.

 

* * *

 

She came to him in a simple gown of no particular color that did little to conceal the bruise blooming along her collarbone. They undressed each other slowly, hesitation staying their hands. Brienne fumbled at the ties of his breeches, and Jaime had forgotten the simplest way to unhook skirt from bodice. When her fingers snarled the laces of his tunic, he grabbed it by the hem and pulled it over his head with two sharp tugs.

They had lain abed together every night for the better part of a year, and there was an odd familiarity between them. He knew to leave her breast bindings for last, just as she remembered his distaste for wearing stockings a moment longer than necessary. But there was a new ache in his chest every time her eyes fluttered to the ground, and his cock hardened in a way it hadn’t for far longer than he cared to remember.

The woman who had spilled her maiden’s blood with such surety trembled before him.

“You are not some innocent maid on her wedding night,” Jaime reminded her. He cracked a smile. “In fact, I don’t think you were half so hesitant as I the night you lost your maidenhead.”

“I was terrified,” Brienne confessed, swallowing hard.

“You’ve no reason to fear now.”

She was studying the shadow of his cheek rather than letting him read her gaze. _Even now_ , he thought, frustration twitching in his jaw.

“I’ve more reason,” she whispered.

And Jaime understood. He saw it in her eyes: so blue, so tender and so broken. How easy it was to feign strength when only your body was bare.

“It was I who killed Aerys.” The words slipped from him without his consent.

Brienne blinked at him. Bewilderment stole across her features, carrying off her confession. “You . . .” She took the time to gather her thoughts, while Jaime’s heart beat like a war drum whose drummer had no ear for rhythm. “You—slew—the king?”

She struggled to make sense of the words, even after they left her lips. There was no disdain in her eyes, but a growing distance, as if suddenly she did not know him at all.

 _Fool_ , Jaime thought desperately, loathing the sight of it. He started speaking, words tumbling free, the chains that had held them broken at last. Rhaegar, winning back a Hand by giving his to Cersei; Aerys, mad and bitter and broken; Tyrion’s suspicions; Cersei’s terror; caches of wildfire hidden beneath the Tower of the Hand, rotting the realm from within.

He and Brienne were sitting on the foot of the bed. Jaime was not sure when that had happened, but the blankets were slipping slowly to the floor, and all he could think was, _This night will be cold_.

Brienne was watching him, her face expressionless.

“ . . . Prince Rhaegar swept in, as if he could stop it. But none could move Aerys save his own madness. He had the wildfire in his hand, raised to dash against the hearth. My sword was free. Aerys turned to look at Rhaegar, and—I struck.”

He was shuddering, he realized. The anger seemed like to drown him.

Brienne put her hand on his nape, fingers soft in his hair, and guided him closer. His cheek skimmed her chin, and then he was cradled against her shoulder like a child at his mother’s breast. His anger twisted to grief, to relief, and seemed to fade entirely.

When Brienne spoke, her voice was soft, strained. “How is it no one knows?”

“Who would not despise me for it?”

 _He deserved to die_ . _Even Rhaegar could see that_.

“You had good reason,” Brienne muttered, obstinate as ever.

Jaime chuckled softly into her flesh. “My lady, you are stubborn as a mule.”

“None could blame you for it,” she continued as though she had not heard.

Fear and regret mingled with some warmth rising in him. Jaime snorted softly. “So innocent,” he murmured. The words vibrated against her bones.

Jaime could bear it no longer. He opened his mouth against the freckles on her skin, closed it around the space between shoulder and collarbone. The heat of her bruise seeped into his jaw, and he felt her breath _thrum_ as she sucked it hard between her teeth. She made no move to stop him.

There was a scar. He could feel it ridged and pocked against the inside of his lip. He pulled away, breath hot at the base of her throat, and ghosted his fingers across the raised skin. Her flesh warmed beneath his.

Jaime eased away, fingers moving restless, relentless across her heated skin. He sought her face in the moonglow. She twisted sharply away, and Jaime found himself pressed against the scattered pillows. Her body loomed over him, hidden in shadow. Her shoulders curled inward as his eyes lay heavy on her.

“ _Brienne_.” His voice was a strangled whisper, not his own. She moved down to meet him, the roughness of her skin somehow comforting.

“Brienne.” He found his tongue again, even and in control. He wanted her to swallow it up.

He brought his hand to her face and turned her eyes to his own. They were the color of twilight, as indistinguishable as the distant place where sea met sky, as impossible to grasp as starlight. Her gaze skittered away, and then her forehead was warm and heavy in the juncture of his shoulder. She did not kiss, nor caress, but he could feel the blaze glowing on her cheeks, and his heart set to racing.

“Brienne,” he breathed, and she echoed him, a shuddered wave of muggy seawind curling around his throat. _Jaime_. He felt her tremble; swallow; nod against his neck.

He had been wrong. The night was not cold. It burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cherish all feedback.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is much appreciated!


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